


Solitary Confinement

by eating_custardinbed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV First Person, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Solitary Confinement, Sorry Not Sorry, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed
Summary: [“This was my fault.”“It was nothing to do with you.”“A week in a prison cell, I should have realised.”“Realised what?”“That in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your own worst enemy.”]- 'Sherlock', The Abominable BrideSo what really happened in that week? Let's find out...





	1. Day One: 0700 hours

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry for what I am about to do. There is not a happy ending. It's the first time I've done such an angsty thing without a happy ending. Again, I am sorry. 
> 
> There will be mentions of self-harm, suicide, torture, self-hatred and substance abuse, so trigger warnings throughout. Certain chapters will have specific trigger warnings. 
> 
> Enjoy. Or don't. 
> 
> I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK, IT IS THE BBC's PROPERTY

_ “Who has not sat before his own heart’s curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart”- Rainer Maria Rilke _

*******

The prison is eerily quiet as I follow the guard through C block. My hands are shackled. These people don’t trust me. All they know it what I’ve done. None of them know why, though, do they? Idiots. 

Mycroft has pulled some strings, so instead of throwing me in with the murderers and the rapists and the drug traffickers, they’re putting me in protective custody. John can’t visit. He wants to. He told me outside just now. I miss his useful, if not a little mundane, comments and insights already. 

Why hadn’t I realised that Appledore was Magnussen’s mind palace? I’ve been racking my brains ever since the incident. It has been nearly two days now. Yesterday, I spent pretty much the entire day in Mycroft’s office, with the portrait of the queen staring disapprovingly down at me. It was hell. Utter. Hell. 

Mycroft says that he’d going to talk to the government board that was dealing with Magnussen. That he’ll try and persuade them not to condemn me to life in prison. Without parole, obviously. I think he’ll try to plead insanity, or at the very least diminished responsibility. I very much knew what I was doing, and I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me. Even if it means that I’ll lose my freedom. 

At least, I suppose, if I do go to prison for the rest of my life, I’ll be able to have visitors. John’s already promised that if I do go down, he’ll visit me. He knows I did it for the right reasons, he says. Maybe he’ll bring the baby, when she’s born? Perhaps.

I think John should talk to the government instead of my twat of a brother. 

The people behind the bars are beginning to stir a little. I can hear it in their breathing patterns, in their little grunts and groans. There are people, killers and cartel owners, in here that I’ve helped put away. That’s why I’m going into protective custody: I’d be killed if not. 

As much as he irritates me, Mycroft has been rather useful during this whole situation. He arranged for me to be able to wear my normal clothes, to bring my skull, even to have my violin. Pulled the Asperger’s card. One mention of my slight mental condition and you have people tripping over each other to make your life easier. Even when they think you’re a cold-hearted killer. It’s human nature, isn’t it? See someone who you perceive to be weaker than yourself, do everything you can to help them and then snicker about them behind their back. 

I’ve never been to prison before. Well, not proper prisons, anyway. I’ve been in rehab and on psych wards, which are surprisingly similar, but nothing on this sort of scale. 

The first face appears at one of the bars. Forty-six year old male, already served ten years of a minimum fifteen-year sentence. Paedophile, molester and child porn addict. No love lost there. He glares at me through small, beady eyes. I glare straight back. 

I know that Phillip Marstowe is kept here. He's a serial killer nicknamed 'The Executioner'. Six years ago now, he committed a series of five murders which followed the methods of execution used in America. That, and he tried to stab me with an illegally owned machete when I caught him. Marstowe's lawyer tried to plead not guilty by reason of insanity, but the bastard knew what he was doing. He's baying for my blood. If I run into him, I doubt I'll survive the encounter. When I said this to John, his face set in that determined way that it does and he folded his arms.

"I don't remember that one," he said. He looked a little angry. 

"It was before we met," I replied. I had to put my cup of tea down so he couldn't see that my hands were shaking. 

I miss John. I want to talk to him. Glancing towards the guard to my left, I see that he is giving me a weird look, the type I used go get from people at uni. I must be thinking out loud again. My mouth snaps shut. 

"Welcome to your new home," the front guard sneers after we've turned a few corners and our little convoy has made its way down a suspiciously dark corridor. I'm faced with a metal door. Steel, a good few inches thick. There's a sliding metal plate at eye level, and a small plated door at the bottom. Solitary? I shrug. I suppose I have managed solitary before. I can do it again, right? 

Stepping forward, I let the guard unlock the handcuffs and slide them off, and allow one of them to shove me into the room. 

The incredibly small room. 

"Try not to go insane," the guard says before slamming the door shut. 

I pace up and down the room. It really is small, only two or three strides. When I stretch out my arms, I can just brush the walls with my fingertips. The dank smell and the peeling gun-metal grey paint reminds me rather forcefully of Serbia. 

"Okay," I murmur to myself. "Okay…" 

A week with no cases is going to be hard. It's bad enough at Baker Street, and there's distractions there. And John, of course. Oh, no. He lives with Mary now. 

** _Yeah, because he can't be around you. Nor can anyone else, Freak. _ **

Jesus, that happened fast. Shut up! 

** _You know I'm right, Sherlock. _ **

You're really not, though, are you? 

** _And yet you keep coming back for more. _ **

Seriously, shut up! 

** _Make me. _ **

Oh, you know I will. 

** _You can't though, can you? _ **

You think I can't? You? 

** _I know so._ ** _ _

Bastard. 

** _Straight back at ya, buddy._ ** _ _

God, what an arsehole. I huff, sitting down on the edge of the plank that I suppose is my bed now. My violin rests on top of a cabinet in its case, but I have no desire to play it. In fact, I don't have a desire to do  _ anything  _ at all. My mind drifts to a time a few months ago, before the wedding. Mary was out of town, so John agreed to stay at 221B for a few days. 

_ "Okay, I just need to gauge what I'm dealing with," John said as he came in, dropping his bags by the sofa. "Sleep, experiment, food."  _

_ "Hm?" Sherlock murmured, bringing his hands down from their thinking position to rest on the edge of the armchair. His eyes flickered open.  _

_ "What have you eaten today, or at least when did you last eat; what bloody experiments have you got going; and when did you last sleep?" John explained, putting his hand on his hips and giving Sherlock a look. _

_ "Don't know, don't know and don't know," Sherlock said, getting up from his armchair and pacing up and down the living room in a restless manner. "And I don't particularly care, either."  _

_ John caught the detective's arm, stopping him in his tracks.  _

_ "Something's wrong," John said.  _

_ "Nothing's wrong," Sherlock replied defensively, trying to tug his arm out of John's grip. "Let me go!"  _

_ "Not until you tell me what's going on," John shot back. "I'm not stupid, contrary to what you think."  _

_ Sherlock's face softened when John said that. Whilst yes, he did consider John's intellectual powers to be considerably less than his own, he didn't think John to be stupid. Far from it, in fact.  _

_ "Nothing's wrong," he said. He kept his tone gentle and even, and forced himself to go limp under John's grip. "I promise. I'm sorry for being snappy, but the criminal classes have inexplicably taken it upon themselves to suddenly conform to the laws of the land."  _

_ John laughed, but then doubled back. He was still holding Sherlock's arm.  _

_ "Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" he said.  _

_ "I'm sorry?"  _

_ "You never apologise," John explained. "Ever. C'mon. What's up?"  _

_ The self-proclaimed consulting detective shuffled his feet awkwardly. His eyes were glued to the floor. John was watching him carefully, and his hand tightened a little.  _

_ "I had a nightmare."  _

_ Sherlock was as surprised as John was to hear these words tumbling from his lips, rushed and disorganised and filled with quite frankly useless emotion. The army doctor couldn't contain his small gasp of surprise, and he blinked, unable to do much else.  _

_ He knew about Serbia. He'd accidentally walked in on Sherlock changing his shirt a couple of weeks after the detective had returned. He'd seen the wounds, the forming scars. _

_ He swallowed, bringing himself out of his guilt.  _

_ "Serbs?" he asked. Sherlock winced.  _

_ "What else?"  _

_ John rubbed his friend's arm in what he hoped was a comforting manner, finally letting Sherlock go and moving to the kitchen, clicking the kettle on. The detective scrambled back to his chair.  _

_ "Tea or coffee?" John asked, his tone chatty as if he he hadn't just found out that his best friend had been mentally reliving his torture.  _

_ "Um… tea, please," Sherlock replied. He sounded mildly confused. "Do you not think that we should-"  _

_ "I know this great little kebab place just off Northumberland Street," John said before Sherlock could see any more. When the detective didn't reply, he sighed and turned away from the kettle to face him. "Look, I'm sorry if I offended you, but I didn't want to force you to talk about it, because I always found that makes it worse. Trust me, I should know."  _

_ Sherlock smiled weakly at him, but shook his head.  _

_ "No, I want to talk about it," he replied. "No more secrets between us. It's not fair on you."  _

_ "But you'll have to relive it," John breathed. He abandoned the tea, coming into the living room and collapsing into his chair. "You shouldn't have to do that."  _

_ "The best way to cure a fear is to face it," Sherlock said, steepling his hands under his chin. "Don't you agree?"  _

_ John shifted in his chair, watching Sherlock nervously.  _

_ "Are you sure?" he said, a last-ditch attempt to change the subject.  _

_ "Positive."  _

_ John let out a sigh and nodded.  _

_ "If you want to talk, I'll listen to you, if that's what you need," he said. Sherlock gave him a weak smile, crossing his legs underneath him and fixing John with a serious look.  _

_ "It was, um, different to how I expected," he said, his voice shaking a little. "I was standing, with my arms chained above me obviously, looking down. They were lying weapons in front of me. Whips, some just leather, some with metal spikes like some sort of perverted sex store. Clubs. Bludgeons. Shotguns. Glowing hot knives. Serrated blades. Every time the biggest one meant forward and touched one, just touched one, I could feel the pain of said weapon on my back, my legs, my chest… all over."  _

_ He had to stop and take a deep breath, blinking away tears, feeling stupid. He looked away from John, unable to watch his pity and what was going to happen to his best friend's face when he said the next part. "And you were there."  _

_ John actually made a small noise at that, which sounded suspiciously like "What the f-", his eyes wide as he stared at Sherlock. The detective was breathing shallowly, his bottom lip trembling a little and his hands tightly gripping the edge of his green chair.  _

_ "You were in the corner," Sherlock continued. His voice was trembling fully now. "Just standing there. Watching me. Be tortured, I mean." He took a deep breath. "You weren't doing anything. At all. And that hurt me. It hurt me more than any of those weapons ever could, because bruises will heal, John, but emotional scars? They never go away."  _

_ Before Sherlock could do anything, John launched himself at the detective, pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock's arms were pinned to his sides, and he gave John a strange look as best he could. He was thankful that John couldn't see the tears starting to drip down his face.  _

_ "I would  _ never  _ do that," the army doctor whispered, his voice oddly strangled but fierce nonetheless. "You know that."  _

_ Sherlock sniffed and nodded into John's shoulder.  _

_ "I don't want to go out," he said quietly.  _

_ "Chinese and a James Bond movie?" John asked, letting Sherlock go. He chose to studiously ignore the fact that Sherlock was wiping his eyes.  _

_ "You know how predictable they are," Sherlock said before letting out a throaty chuckle. "Course."  _

_ 888888 _

_ Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the vulnerability that he had displayed. But Sherlock had a strange churning sensation in his stomach. He was pushing his almond chicken around his plate, the movie nothing more than background noise as he gazed at John. How, and more importantly why, was this incredible, kind-hearted, generous, handsome, loving, loyal, resilient, physically adept, strong, caring  _ (I'm running out of adjectives: heck, there aren't enough words in the English language to describe John Watson)  _ adrenaline junkie here with him, eating Chinese and watching James _ fucking  _ Bond? Was there some sort of ulterior motive? Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking John over in his critical deductive light. Nothing. Just like normal. He let out a frustrated sigh, letting his fork clatter to his plate and pushing the meal away. Why? Why was John Watson such a mystery to him?  _

_ "-lright?"  _

_ He jumped at the voice on his right, having to blink a few times before he realised that it was John who was talking to him.  _

_ "Hm?" he murmured, having to physically shake his head to refocus his attention.  _

_ "I asked if you were feeling alright," John repeated, frowning a little. He looked concerned. "You seem a little… I don't know, off it." This was accompanied with a small hand wave. "Plus, you've barely eaten a thing. So: you feeling alright?"  _

_ Sherlock smiled sheepishly, nodding and picking up his plate again, raising a forkful of food to his lips. He just couldn't make himself put it in his mouth, eventually putting it back down on the plate and feeling a bit silly.  _

_ "I'm fine," he said for what felt like the thousandth time since John had arrived. "Just not hungry."  _

_ "Do you want a hug or something?"  _

_ That caught Sherlock by surprise. He clenched his hand into a fist on his knee before splaying his fingers out, repeating this action a few times before he managed to look back up at John.  _

_ "I mean…" he stammered, his hand still clenching and unclenching on his leg. "Um… well, um, I suppose the pressure would- um, shit, that's not what I meant. I…"  _

_ "C'm'ere, you great lump," John laughed, patting the space next to him. Tentatively, Sherlock crept across the sofa and half lay down so he was tucked comfortably under John's arm. He slowly put his arms around the army doctor's waist, looking up at him with intense vulnerability.  _

_ "Are you sure this is okay?" he asked. _

_ "Course," John said, slipping his arm around the detective's shoulders. "If it makes you feel safe, of course it's okay. It's perfect."  _

Even now, I can feel his arm around me, protecting me from whatever the world or my mind can throw at me. In here? In here, I'm alone and I feel as if my armour has been stripped from me, and they're sending me into battle to face my certain death. It's a Bit Not Good to say the very least. I wrap my arms around my middle, grateful for the comforting pressure the action provides. It isn't enough, though, and I can feel the panic rising in me like a tsunami, battering my flood defenses and threatening to sweep me away in a wave of anxiety. 

My arms are tightening to an uncomfortable level now, but I can't seem to stop. Whole body trembling, I double over, talking myself through the calming breathing exercises that Mycroft taught me as a child. They're sort of helping, but not really. I spy my violin out of the corner of my eye. It's lying on the bed, if you can call it that, and I force myself to stagger over to it, picking it up before collapsing onto the bed. The smooth texture of the wood, the familiar sound of the strings when I gently pluck them: it helps to soothe the roaring river of my mind. Letting out a shaky sigh, I lie back on the blankets, one arm resting over my eyes and a leg dangling off the side. The violin is balanced on my stomach, with my other hand gently caressing it. No meltdowns today. I won't give my brother the satisfaction. 

I’m replaying Magnussen's death over and over again in my head. Killing someone was, well… It was very different from what I expected. I thought I would be detached, knowing that they probably deserved it. Magnussen certainly did. Yet, I feel guilty. Shocked. Disgusted. Such a simple act, the pulling of the trigger, but one that brings about such dire consequences. With John’s gun as well. The very gun that saved my live on our first mission together tarnished by the atrocity of my actions. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it. How could I do such a thing? Stop a heart, end a life? And in such a brutal, undignified manner? A hole is  _ ripped  _ through you, tearing through skin and muscle and bone as if they are nothing more than paper. The pain is unimaginable. That’s if you haven’t experienced it, and even then it’s still difficult. In fact, I think it might be even harder.

I shot him in the head, didn’t I? I made sure that he would never again walk this earth, never again prey on the innocent and their secrets. Although, now I think about it, how innocent can they really be? Everyone has secrets, dark parts of themselves which they hide away from the rest of the world. Everyone, from the top businessman in the Square Mile to the woman on the corner of the street, they are nothing more than a facade, because hidden beneath their perfect smiles and their carefully constructed images are demons, demons that will cast an impenetrable shadow over their joyful memories and will haunt them until their dying day. Nobody is who they seem. Least of all me. 

But maybe I’m being overdramatic.

Sighing, I turn on my side to face the wall. It was painted grey a long, long time ago, but now the paint has faded, peeling away in huge strips, exposing the bare plasterboard underneath. I raise my hand and gently run my fingers over it. The edge is jagged, but it calms me. It feels a little like the wallpaper in Baker Street when I shoot the wall. A smile creeps onto my face as I think of Mrs Hudson tutting and shaking her head at me. She always says she'll add it to the rent, but she never does. I love her to bits. 

I suppose I could put my time here to good use trying to solve The John Conundrum. I've been making fairly good progress, but have recently hit a bit of a snag that I just can't seem to get past. 

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and delve into the depths of my mind palace. 


	2. Day One: 1200 hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo everybody!!! I have no idea who is actually reading this lol, but here is the next part! I know it still took ages but I've had loads of rehearsals for a remembrance play I'm doing at school. Performing this week though, so no more!! But mocks are coming up. :(. I'll write as much as I can, I promise. 
> 
> PLEASE ENJOY THIS XXX

_ "I loved [him] against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be."- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations _

*******

When I open my eyes, it takes me a second or two to realise where I am. For a moment, I do panic, but then I remember that I'm not in Serbia. I'm in jail, yes, but in England. I let out a sigh of relief. 

How long have I been in the sanctuary of my mind palace? I can never tell. Once, I spent nearly 18 hours in there. Didn't move or anything. John thought I was in a coma, and he only brought me out of it accidentally when he was checking that I was still breathing. I found the whole thing rather hilarious. He didn't. The bruise stayed for nearly two weeks. 

It's the banging on the door which gets my attention. It must have been what has brought me back to gritty reality. I glance down at my watch: midday exactly. With a small groan, I pick myself up off of the plank, haul myself over to the door, shaking out my stiff joints, and tap at the metal slider. The hammering stops abruptly, and then the cat flap- apparently my brain has decided to name it that now- at my feet opens. It's only brief, and the whole procedure is over in a couple of seconds. Slide the food tray in, slam down the flap after them. I sigh and look down at the tray. 

Plastic cutlery only, of course. Can't possible risk me cutting my way out of literal _ metres _of concrete with a stainless steel fork, can we? The whole utensil problem aside, the food itself looks thoroughly inedible. Two scoops of lumpy mashed potato, which is probably glue-like in consistency and tasteless, a small piece of leathery meat and some damp, stringy vegetables. The whole thing is cold, and I refuse to eat it. I'm not! I mean, look at it! You wouldn't eat it, would you? Exactly. So why should I? Thank you. 

Mycroft is going to go spare when he finds out that I'm not eating. I don't understand why. He really has nothing to do with it, and it doesn't affect him in any way shape or form. So why is he so bothered by it? It makes no sense, really. 

Whatever. It's no use obsessing over. 

I didn't get very far with The John Conundrum. I sort of ended up thinking about his old army photos and how much I want to kiss him and how jealous I am of Mary for getting this incredible man. For three hours! Not ideal. None of my fantasizing will ever matter, anyway, because John isn't gay. He's very adamant about it. It's not like I can deduce him. I can observe physical symptoms, yes, but after a few seconds, all I can think about is my heart racing in my chest and how beautiful his eyes are and just how soft his lips look…

See above for Exhibit A: Sherlock Holmes' incurable crush on John H Watson. 

I need to get a grip if I'm going to get through this without having an emotional breakdown or something. Let's call it an experiment: one on- 

Hang on. 

This is actually a perfect place to conduct an experiment! Completely detached from any interfering extraneous variables, somewhere entirely unfamiliar to the participant, nothing even remotely near that could mess with the results… it's the perfect laboratory experiment! A small smile grows on my face as I pace the room. I'm thinking about observing the effects of no food for a week on the human body. Given that John isn't here to nag me into eating, and I don't intend to consume anything that they give me here, it seems like a perfect experiment. 

Plus, maybe then, I'll feel a bit less awful about the whole Magnussen business. 

God, I can't _ wait _ to see Mycroft's face when they tell him. I won't be there, per se, but I can imagine it perfectly. Lip curled up in slight disgust, nostrils flaring as the hand on the precious umbrella tightens. But the eyes will always stay emotionless. Those cold, dead, unfeeling eyes, as reptilian as the man underneath. The one that can walk away from his little brother, leaving him in a rehab facility and not calling or visiting him for half a _ fucking _year. 

** _Why would he visit? You're a whiny bitch as it is, imagine it exacerbated by withdrawal! _ **

I sigh. Here we go again. 

** _Do you remember rehab? _ **

Of course. You were still here, but you didn't have the annoying Irish accent back then. 

** _Do you remember the pain? The want, nay, the _ ** ** _need_ ** ** _ to use scratching at your veins? The sweating, the shaking? _ **

I'm well aware of what detox entails, thank you. 

** _You miss it, don't you? _ **

Why the _ hell _would I miss it!? 

** _No, no, no, you're being stupid, don't be stupid. You know what I mean. _ **

Oh, but I really don't. 

** _Well I know, and I'm in your head, so you must know. _ **

Indulge me. 

** _Are you brain dead? _ **

I don't believe so, no. 

** _Ugh. Fine. You miss the drugs. _ **

Preposterous! I-I don't miss them one little bit! 

** _John isn't here. Lestrade isn't here. Mrs Hudson isn't here. Mummy and Daddy aren't here. Mycroft isn't here. It's just you and me, Sherlock. You can be honest here and no one will ever find out, I promise. _ **

Of course I bloody miss them! I don't even have cigarettes to distract myself with any more because John burned them all and told me it was for my own good because apparently I was rotting my lungs! 

** _I don't know why we put up with him. _ **

I. Why _ I _put up with him. 

** _Right. You, sorry, of course. _ **

And I put up with him because he's my best friend and because… well because I love him! 

** _You really do fall in love with the most inconvenient people, don't you? _ **

I know, I know. 

** _The man who has vehemently declared that he is "not gay" since the day you met him? The man who, when introduced to Sebastian, spoke over you and said he was a colleague? And the same man who attacked you _ ** _ at least _ ** _three times when you came back from the dead after protecting him? I mean, really? _ **

Come on, he didn't know about the protection thing until afterwards! 

** _Oo, naughty!_ **

You're disgusting. 

** _Again, in your head, darling. _ **

I let out an angry huff and stalk over to the plank, where my violin is lying amidst the mess of blankets. Picking it up, I search for my bow and eventually find it on a side dresser. Bow to string, I let everything loose and just play. 

When I play the violin, I feel as if I can just be myself for once. I don't have to worry about what anyone will think, what anyone will say, because I can pour my emotions into the music. Sometimes, I wish I could bring my violin with me on crime scenes and simply play the 'Psycho' theme tune any time Anderson talks. John would find it hilarious, but alas, he would probably chastise me and hide the laughter until the cab ride home. 

Even the violin can't distract me from John today, and the music slowly becomes more and more erratic, jumping between notes and melodies, flicking from Beethoven to Bach to Tchaikovsky as my brain shifts from normal to freak out mode. I can't have a meltdown now. I _ can't. _Luckily, there's not much here to cause sensory overload, but the light… It's loud, very loud. Buzzing extremely loudly, flickering back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I screw my eyes tightly shut, cutting off my violin mid-tune and dropping it on the bed in order to clamp my hands over my eyes. 

The light is too loud, the shuffle of my shoes on the floor is too loud, everything is too loud, my clothes rub uncomfortably on my skin and they're itching incessantly. I have the urge to tear them all off, but I know that then the air will bite and it'll make everything worse. I think to the drawers. What have I packed? Various suits, dressing gowns, pyjamas-- 

Pyjamas. With no labels. 

Chancing it, I open my eyes and take my hands from my ears, sprinting the short distance and wrenching the drawer open. I grab the pyjamas and change at the speed of light. I leave my suit crumpled and thrown in the corner. Stumbling towards the plank, I let myself collapse up on it as my legs begin to shake. I hate it when this happens. I feel so useless, so out of control. This is the closest I've been since Baskerville. 

_ "I don't have friends!" _

_ "Yeah, I wonder why?" _

_ He'd fucked up. He'd royally fucked up, he knew that. He'd driven John away for good now. He was shaking, and it wasn't the alcohol that was doing it. Lying on the bed, he was fully questioning everything he'd seen that night. He couldn't have seen the hound. He couldn't! It made no sense! How could there be a hound? There was no logical explanation that his brain could provide, and that's what scared him the most. _

_ There was a small creak at the door, and instantly Sherlock was up and ready to fight, his fists clenched in front of him. _

_ "Jesus, it's only me," John's voice came as he stepped into the small room, his hands held up in surrender. "You alright?" _

_ "Fine," Sherlock said shortly, lowering his fists and clearing his throat in an attempt to eliminate the tremor from his voice. "How did it go with Dr Mortimer?" _

_ John's face hardened, and it struck Sherlock that something must have gone wrong. _

_ "Dr Franklin interrupted," the army doctor said. "Called me a glorified PA and blew my cover, so thanks very much for that." _

_ "That's not my fault!" Sherlock replied in indignation, wincing as his voice rose. _

_ "Are you alright?" John asked again. Concern was plastered all over his face. _

_ "Why wouldn't I be?" the detective said stiffly. _

_ "You winced, that's all. Sorry for being worried, I won't bother you again." _

_ Uh oh. He'd annoyed John again. He watched helplessly as John pushed past him and got into bed. The only bed in the room. Sherlock cleared his throat again, shuddering. His back was turned to John. _

_ "I'm not okay," he said quietly. _

_ "Finally," John huffed, getting up and pulling Sherlock over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Just cut the bullshit, tell me what's wrong." _

_ "It's not as easy as that," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath. He seemed to be taking a lot of those. "Can you please go into my suitcase?" _

_ "Sherlock-" _

_ "Please--" Sherlock had to stop himself, hearing his voice rise and watching his fist clench on his knee. "Please just do it." _

_ John gave him an almost pitying look, but went to Sherlock's suitcase, which was stowed under the bed. Opening it up, he cast Sherlock another look, a confused one this time. _

_ "Don't see anything too unusual," he remarked. _

_ "In the lining." _

_ John's face went hard as he scrabbled a little more anxiously in the suitcase. Finding the zip for the secret compartment, he reached into it and pulled out a thick cotton blanket. It was worn, various patches sewn into the faded blue fabric, but even to John's foreign touch it felt comforting. It was unusually heavy when John picked it up. _

_ "Is this is?" he asked. "What you wanted?" _

_ Sherlock nodded, holding out his hand for the blanket. Once John had passed it to him, he draped it around his shoulders, shuddering a little as the fabric brushed his skin. The pressure helped to calm him immediately, and he looked up at John with vulnerable, innocent eyes. _

_ "Thank you," he said with as much sincerity as he could manage. _

_ "Is that… a weighted blanket?" John asked. _

_ "Mm. Helps to calm me." _

_ Just by looking at him, Sherlock could tell that a thousand thoughts were racing through the army doctor's head. Similar to his own. He winced, clutching at the edges of the well-worn fabric. The blanket was nearly twenty years old now, and in desperate need of replacing, but the detective simply couldn't bring himself to throw it away. So in his drawer it lived, always travelling with him, always waiting for the next time it could be of service to him. _

_ "Okay," John said, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. "That's… yeah. Okay." _

_ "Oh please do relax," Sherlock found himself saying. "It's not that big of a deal." _

_ "Why didn't you tell me?" the army doctor demanded, coming to stand in front of Sherlock. He was breathing heavily through his nose, and his fingers were starting to curl into fists. Sherlock shrugged, regardless of his fears _

_ "It wasn't important." _

_ "So when were you planning on telling me!?" _

_ "When it became important." _

_ "And when would that have been?" _

_ "I don't know!" Sherlock snapped. He realised immediately and paused, thinking of all the hurtful things he'd said to others whilst he'd been in this state. He didn't want to hurt John. He took another deep breath, which was supposed to be calling but didn't really do anything. "I didn't want you to- no, it doesn't matter." _

_ Phew. That was a close one. Sherlock pressed his lips firmly together as John gave him a suspicious look. _

_ "No, Sherlock," John said slowly, coming forward and sitting next to his best friend on the bed. "What is it?" _

_ "I told you, it doesn't matter," Sherlock said tersely. _

_ "It does." _

_ "It really doesn't." _

_ "Sherlock." _

_ "John-" _

_ "Please tell me. I swear I-" _

_ "I didn't want you to think less of me!" Sherlock blurted. He hung his head in shame as he did so. "God, you have the most infuriating way of getting things out of me!" _

_ He looked up. John's face had turned into an unreadable mask, a hardened emotional exoskeleton that Sherlock was a little jealous of. _

_ "I wouldn't," John eventually said after a few minutes' awkward silence. "I don't." _

_ "You don't?" _

_ Sherlock was surprised, to say the least. John didn't seem to be lying, but then again, how would he know? _

_ "Of course I don't," John replied softly. "I'm not a monster." _

** _Oh no, _ ** _ Sherlock thought. _ ** _You are anything but, John Watson. _ **

I must be destined to die alone, if even John Watson won't have me. John is the only person I have ever admired, the only person I have ever wanted to truly impress. If I didn't know better than to say such preposterous things, I may even say that he is my soulmate. Is it not fate that we met? What are the chances of the circumstances would be so perfectly aligned that we met in the way that we did. 

_ "And what do we say of coincidences, brother mine?" _

_ "The universe is rarely so lazy." _

There my brother's voice is again, leaping into my head and ruining any chance I had of thinking about this rationally. Mycroft really is the most infuriating creature on this planet. 

My food has gone completely cold now. By my estimates, it has been about an hour since it arrived. I haven't touched it. Shuffling over, I slide it back to the metal plate. There it sits, taunting me. I am struck by the sudden craving for the Chinese John and I get on Baker Street, and my stomach lets out a low growl. I glare down at it, sternly telling myself that I will not break down,I will not succumb to the most basic human urges, because I am far, far above them. 

Deep down, I know that that is no more than a lie. 

In some ways, I think that I am more human that most others I meet. While other people claim to be fully human with their stupid little feelings and emotions, I doubt many of them have really reached to and experienced that farthest reaches of the human psyche like I have. The soaring high of a cocaine rush, the devastating crash as it wears off. The adrenaline pumping through your veins as you crash through the woods, panting, muscles burning with lactic acid, the exhilaration as the wind whips through your hair, the crushing realisation that you can only go so far, the daunting knowledge of the torture that is awaiting you. Taking a chance on the plan that has only been hastily put together as you toss a phone, and then emulate the gesture with yourself, the building as your hand. Watching the ground grow closer and closer and closer, resisting the urge to tear away from it all, the self-control needed to let it happen. Listening as your best friend breaks down in front of you, not knowing that you are listening and trying to scream to him _ it's a magic trick, it's all fake, why can't you see this, John!? _

Shooting a man in the head to save the woman your soulmate loves instead of you. 

I don't think many people have done that, have they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, but I got dumped at the weekend and turns out my ex is a real douche, so some depressing shit coming your way soon. Really hope you enjoyed!! Please leave comments and kudos, especially comments. They really keep me going, and I'll reply to them all xx

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Alright. Hope you enjoyed, and please leave kudos and comments. I will reply to all of them!!!! 
> 
> If you like this, check out my Tumblr @shooting-the-walls !!


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